So sedate is Elena Ferrante’s pacing that, when something truly horrible happens, on p. 83 of My Brilliant Friend, it is like (to borrow an over-used term) a punch in the gut.

There.

Also, needless to say, SPOILERS.

Don Achille, the terrible Don Achile, was murdered in his house in the early afternoon of a surprisingly rainy August day.

He was in the kitchen, and had just opened the window to let in the rain-freshened air. He had got up from bed to do so, interrupting his nap. He had on worn blue pajamas, and on his feet only socks of a yellowish color, blackened at the heels. As soon as he opened the window a gust of rain struck his face and someone plunged a knife into the right side of his neck, halfway between the jaw and the clavicle.

A few days ago, self was telling a friend that she didn’t think My Brilliant Friend was as good as some of Elena Ferrante’s earlier work.

But this event is so masterfully delivered. Kudos, Elena Ferrante. Just — kudos all over the place.

Self stood beneath the wisteria on her front porch and thought of this poem by Lawrence Ferlinghetti:

Wisteria: Evening, 28 March 2019

I am waiting for my case to come up
and I am waiting
for a rebirth of wonder
and I am waiting for someone
to really discover America
and wail
and I am waiting
for the discovery
of a new symbolic western frontier
and I am waiting
for the American Eagle
to really spread its wings
and straighten up and fly right
and I am waiting
for the Age of Anxiety
to drop dead
and I am waiting
for the war to be fought
which will make the world safe
for anarchy
and I am waiting
for the final withering away
of all governments
and I am perpetually awaiting
a rebirth of wonder